


Forget-me-not

by Palebluedot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9.23 spoilers, Angst, M/M, So be warned, So much angst, but cas canonically thinks dean's dead and that's how i wrote him here, i don't think this needs to be tagged as MCD because nobody actually dies, my attempt to sound intelligent, post 9.23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is dead, and Castiel mourns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget-me-not

In heaven, tucked away in the endless expanse of departed souls, there is an old woman, her hair frizzled and unashamedly gray, her figure round and soft. While she lived, she had loved her garden more than anything, and so this is her paradise, carefully attending to her patch of forget-me-nots.

Castiel had noticed her soul a long time ago. It shone unusually brightly, singing with generosity and a well-used smile. So he quietly allowed her heaven to reach beyond the confines of memory. He made the soil darker, richer, and bade the abstract sun be as loving as the human it shone on had been in life, and as the years drifted by on the thick spring breeze, the old woman was surrounded by a veritable field of sky-colored blossoms, stretching out to the horizon and beyond.

Little miracles, every one.

And, every so often, he had appeared to her as a small honeybee, gently nursing her flowers by her side. She did not shoo him away, and so he was able to listen to her speak to them. She told them stories about her husband, and about the kind young lady who had helped her at the bookstore. About her children, her grandchildren, and my, hadn’t they grown up nicely? She was proud of them all, though they sometimes forgot to call on Mother’s Day.

_Forget-me-not._

She had died of a sudden heart attack at seventy-one, and Castiel is grateful for it. She did not deserve the drawn-out suffering that is slow withering by illness.

Dean had not deserved this fate either, and Castiel tries to take some comfort in the fact that his passage out of life must have been swift. Metatron is a most efficient storyteller, and would not linger on the death scenes of his enemies. That would bring them dangerously close to martyrdom, and that could not be allowed under any circumstances.

_Well, guess what? He’s dead, too._

Castiel buries his face in his hands, and weaves his grace deeper into the haven that is this plane of existence. After the imprisonment of the self-proclaimed God, Castiel had quickly stepped aside, letting other, better angels lead the seraphim to new life. He had never wanted leadership. He had only ever wanted peace for his people; now it has come to pass.

And all he has left to do is mourn.

_Forget-me-not._

He lifts his head, and finds that his hands and cheeks are wet. How curious and cruel it is that, even in his incorporeal state, he can still shed tears. They flow continuously now, wave after wave, sliding down his face, and dripping onto the ground beneath his feet.

He hopes that their salt does not poison the soil.

Across the field, the old woman wipes her brow, and sets aside her chipped yellow watering can. With some difficulty of movement, she lays down on her back between the rows of flowers, and stares contentedly up at the sky, and Castiel is suddenly reminded of one of the many times when he watched over Dean. It seems like a lifetime ago.

He had been shopping at a home improvement store (he needed to purchase stakes for a hunt), and had happened to pause for a moment at the halfhearted, purely seasonal gardening display near the back. His fingers had been calloused and rough against the soft, unspoiled petals of the forget-me-nots, and he had smiled. Without any real conscious effort, Castiel slipped into his mind, and found that this was because the flowers reminded Dean of somebody’s eyes.

Somebody that Dean had loved dearly.

Then, the moment flowed past, as moments tend to do, and the flowers were forgotten. Castiel supposes there is some irony in that, but he does not wish to find it. All he knows it that every single one of Dean’s moments has now passed, and Castiel is lost.

He cannot return to Earth. Not now. He knows it is selfish, but he can’t bear to witness Sam’s unknowable grief, or touch Dean’s body, lifeless, his eyes dull and flat. Not when he knows that he will be unable to restore him to life. Metatron will undoubtedly have made certain of that.

As the angels rebuild heaven, the gates will open, the lost souls will flock home, and Dean’s will be among them. When he arrives, Castiel will sense it, and he will fly to him, and likely never leave. But for now, heaven is empty of this light, and so is Castiel.

A flower left alone in a dimly-lit store.

_Forget-me-not._

Hands trembling, Castiel crouches down. Lovingly traces the edge of a leaf. Sinks his fingers deep in the cool, dark earth.

Castiel has always been taught that the world is a place of miracles. And he believes it. He has seen them for himself, in a field of forget-me-nots tended for eternity by a beautifully patient old woman, and the love and laughter and _life_ he used to see in Dean Winchester’s eyes.

He has always thought that the smallest miracles are the most remarkable.

Gentle but sure in his movements, Castiel pulls upwards. Thin roots snap under his hands, but the plant he holds is mostly unharmed. The small, blue flowers tremble as he rises. He takes his small, precious miracle with him when he leaves this place, and knows that the old woman will not mind.

His wings carry him across the dimensions, and time folds in on itself where he lands. The space there is raw, uncarved. With a thought, Castiel molds it into a landscape, sky kissing the horizon, grass uncut and dusty. A single weather-beaten, wooden cross stands there like a promise, and this is where Castiel kneels.

He carefully digs a hole at its base, and plants the borrowed forget-me-not there, earth smearing his fingers. It may not be a grandiose memorial, but it seems…fitting, somehow.

Kneeling there, Castiel remembers dirt roads and the beat of guitar music drummed onto a steering wheel. He remembers an old leather jacket, handed down by a father who did what he thought he had to do, and let two boys think they had to be soldiers. He remembers the broken soul whose devotion was strong enough to thwart heaven itself. He remembers the color green, a bright, easy smile, freckles painted on skin like stars, and how each of them in their turn taught him exactly what it is to love.

Castiel remembers Dean Winchester, and he stands.

_“I will not forget.”_


End file.
